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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27853510">I'm Not A Good Person</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MimicMadness/pseuds/MimicMadness'>MimicMadness</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Projecting onto Dream? More likely than you think. [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bad Eating Habits, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, im projecting on dream, my mental health has been ass recently, no beta we die like l'manburg, vent fic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:34:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>561</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27853510</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MimicMadness/pseuds/MimicMadness</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Projecting onto Dream? More likely than you think. [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2080110</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>85</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I'm Not A Good Person</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dream wasn't hungry often. At this point, he didn't know if his stomach had gotten used to him ignoring its grumbling and only eating once hunger pains struck or if it was just himself falling deeper into that habit. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was hungry even less often during the winter. Sometimes his stomach would signal him with growls he registered or sharp stabs and he would ignore them. He had more important things to do.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dream wasn't sure what those things were half the time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Another thing that Dream had grown used to was the self-loathing he felt, he wasn't a good person and he knew this. Even if he kept it hidden he was mean and bitter deep down, he’d snap at his friends and his partners without much reason, he’d lash out for attention, he drove people away when they got too close.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was for their own good, he told himself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dream was happy that his friends were stubborn and refused to be pushed away. It didn't matter if Dream thought he deserved to be alone - he never wrote to anyone, he never called, half the time he didn't think about anyone at all, spending the day asleep in his room while exhaustion seeped into his bones.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was always so tired. He wondered if it had something to do with his eating habits. Barely eating could make you tired, couldn't it? But even if Dream was tired at night, no matter how much he was able to sleep in the day, he found himself restless. He tossed and turned in the dark of his empty room, sometimes he would just stare motionlessly at the ceiling, wondering how he got here.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wasn't supposed to be around this long.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And that's what he would think about while the clock ticked over to midnight, to four in the morning. Dream’s mind would wander from this to that, wanting nothing more than to put his racing mind at ease. Sometimes his ceiling fan would catch his eye, resting above his bed. Sometimes he thought about it falling on him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And sometimes his thoughts would wander to George or Sapnap. Maybe to get his rocks off, after all a quick fuck between friends would be better than rotting away in his room. Maybe it was to be less lonely, having a partner to love and cuddle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dream occasionally felt sick at the thought of having another heartbeat in the room that wasn't Patches.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sometimes in the dark his eyes would drift to the wardrobe in the corner of his room, the drawers holding secrets like knives. Knives he had used plenty of times to slice his own skin to see himself bleed, simply because he needed to prove to himself he was real.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dream wondered how the blade would feel against his jugular, biting into the skin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hated when his friends, family, and partners noticed his mental health. He didn't want them to worry about him when there were more important things they could worry over. Sometimes Dream contemplated reaching out for help, either from those close to him or from a professional.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wasn't sure he wanted help. Help meant being vulnerable, stepping outside of his comfort zone. It meant weakness in his eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So he didn't get help.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He could deal with it on his own, he would be fine.</span>
</p>
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